


Wild and Sweet, the Words Repeat (Of Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men)

by Miele_Petite



Series: Over oceans unknown (You are always with me) [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Armistice, Fanart, Inspired by Poetry, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Ugly Sweaters, World War I, be prepared to cry probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite
Summary: After their fight over Crowley's request for holy water, the demon is doing his best to forget about the Arrangement and Aziraphale, but one Christmas Eve, chance throws them together, forcing them into a truce for the week.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Over oceans unknown (You are always with me) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1488173
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Gift Exchange





	Wild and Sweet, the Words Repeat (Of Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geode](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geode/gifts).



Out beyond the ideas

Of wrong doing and right doing

There is a field-

I'll meet you there.

-Rumi

Western Front, December 1914

Crowley peers at the rat. It peers back, whiskers twitching. He never really had anything against rats, they were just shuffling along like everything else on the planet, trying to exist. He can't blame it for thinking this is a good spot to be- rats are hardly analytical thinkers. But it definitely isn't, and it will be an even worse spot when the trench dog shows up. He encourages it to go elsewhere with a flick of his tongue that the rat understands as snake, and it scurries off.

 _Get up there and make some trouble_. Even after six millennia, those orders sometime still ring in his ears. The problem with these being his orders now, of course, is that there's plenty of trouble here already, plenty of misery without him lifting a finger. Before this whole thing kicked off- the world itself, and all the creatures great and not-so-great- the only concept of _being_ that heaven (and hell) had was heavenly order. It was, after all the only _there_ there was, for a very long time. There was plenty of havoc that could be wreaked there, plenty of discord that could be sown, none of that sort of thing having existed before. But when it finally _did_ exist, well, there'd been _consequences_. One of them, perhaps, was that finding it fitting, discord had become Hell's imperative, and unfortunately by association, _Crowley's_. But the earth, where he was now, was a place of endless chaos- one hardly needed to bring more.

So right now, needed or not, he's here to foment unrest as per usual when wars kick off. It's never been his thing. War means too much death, takes all the fun out of suffering. And this one... well, the scope of it is definitely a new human achievement, he supposes. Sometimes he wonders if he plays his cards right, he could get a desk job down in hell. As endlessly unpleasant as that would be, he isn't sure if the world is worth staying in right now.

Still, he has to admit, there have been highlights to living on this backwater planet. The humans, (almost in the same boat as himself, when he thought about it) have figured out how to survive here, to thrive. Their cleverness often brings relief to his boredom and malaise, and he likes them for that. The recent invention of espresso, for one, will go down as one of his favourite contributions to the pleasures of this world. Yes, when he is done here he really should go back to Italy. Not Rome though, it is far too soon for that.

Unfortunately, his memories of Rome are inextricably linked to thoughts of Aziraphale, who until this very moment he's managed to avoid thinking about since at least 1902. Damn it. The last he'd seen of the angel was fifty years ago, his stupid frumpy coat flapping behind him like sulky wings as he'd stormed off. He'd ruffled Aziraphale's feathers before, sure, but this was different. They hadn't spoken since. He swallows thickly. He wishes he could just pretend he is miserable because without the Arrangement, he's been zipping between tasks with too much frequency for his liking, but it is more, and worse, than that. He'd told Aziraphale in a fit of pique that he _didn't need_ him, which is regretfully the only lie he's ever told the angel. And like most of his demonic deeds, that lie had come back to haunt him immediately, snowballing into a row that is still sitting in his recollection like a red-hot thing to be edged around lest he touch it. _Fraternizing_ , Aziraphale had said. That word carries meaning. It meant he had still thought of them as enemies. Crowley had thought they were friends at least, hadn't he been a good one? Hadn't he deserved a favour for once? Apparently not, and now his heart is more than broken- it is ground to dust.

Against self-preservation, he wonders what Aziraphale is doing right now, envisions him cozied up snugly in his shop with his ridiculous books. He petulantly imagines pushing a stack of them over. _Fraternizing_. He bites his lip, barely daring to say to himself what he'd really been, what he _still_ was, despite trying to burn it out, drink it away, sleep it off- _in love_. The very idea is revolting. He likes control, likes to keep his things, his mind, in order. He likes it because Hell doesn't offer order of any kind. In some ways, the angel is his own personal Hell, wresting control of his heart away and upending his thoughts into chaos. It hurts so much, and yet, he wants more. Oh well, he thinks, frowning up at the parados, at least his expression is fittingly suffering for a man in the trenches.

"Good morning," a voice chimes softly beside him, breaking his reverie. "Erm, bonjour, I guess," it adds, in terrible, scouse-accented French.

The man behind the voice, a ruddy faced youth called Petersen, hands him a mug of tea. It is barely hot. It is barely tea, really. Crowley decides he will definitely hit Milan after this.

"Merci," he replies moodily. "Morning." He doesn't know if the label of good applied in this situation.

"Looks like more snow," Petersen says, conversationally. The Brits have a thing about meteorological discourse. King Alfred the Great had creakily arthritic knees, said he could feel the rain coming, and never shut up about it. It became a whole thing then, a fashion that took off, and they'd never stopped.

"Mmmm..." Crowley replies, non-conversationally.

Petersen isn't a bad fellow, even for all he's seen out here on the front, thinks the demon. He is like human glue, keeps the lads together. He seems to believe somehow in fairness, and never met a fellow he couldn't charm into liking him. How the man manages to be so easy going, so chipper in the face of all this, Crowley would never know. The demon wonders sometimes, glumly, just how long it will take before all this rubs the shine off of him, for the darkness to get to the center of him. As an agent of Hell sent to spread unrest and play pranks, it isn't really fitting for him to spare anyone in particular, but antagonizing Petersen... well, it's like kicking a puppy, it hardly feels sporting. Once he's moved on, humans will cause their own suffering anyway, him included. There's no need to drag him down with demonic intervention, Crowley decides.

* * *

Turns out, like Alfred the Great, Petersen is right about the weather. First there is a lovely dusting of white around the trench, almost purifying the blasted earth, covering the signs of desolation. But then the heavens open up and down comes a torrent of white, thick and unrelenting, so much they are barely able to shovel and bail it out before it is blanketing the trench again. Crowley is lurking, his dark coat a light grey from a covering of flakes, when Petersen hurries past him to take up his appointed sentry duty. He looks more excited than a man with sentry duty should.

"Did you 'ear?" he says as he passes, "Some medic lads got stuck in the snow up the road a bit and they're coming to 'ole up with us. Think they're bringing supplies and post! Oh, wish they'd bring brandy- be nice to get fortified against this weather, eh, on Christmas Eve?"

Crowley watches Petersen hurry away to his space on the parapet. Christmas Eve? He hasn't been marking the days lately, and it surprises him. Most days are miserable down here, but like the humans, he is so bored that the arrival of supplies is an interesting development. Maybe, he thinks, in a moment of weakness, he could make sure there was brandy in those supplies for these poor bastards, however unlikely that would be. He heads off to the supply trench where any surreptitious miracles would have to be performed, and when he gets there he stops short. He feels it before he sees him, that rush of annoying goodness, tickling at his aura. The trenches offer nowhere to hide, so he stands there gaping as the last of the medics clambers down, dressed in a miraculously immaculate RAMC uniform, but with that unmistakable fluff of curls, almost pale as the drifted snow.

"Right," the medic says, as he turns, "That's the lot of it then-" and then, seeing Crowley, he makes a lot of undignified, surprised spluttering noises. "What are _you_ doing here?" he finally gasps.

Crowley fights the urge to snap his fingers and send himself somewhere, anywhere but here.

One of the other medics offers a hand to Crowley, and he takes it. "Bonjour, Lieutenant! Captain Russell, Linseed Lancers," he introduces himself. "How did you get to be friends with Captain Fell here?"

Crowley levels his eyes past the smiling Russell, coldly to Aziraphale's face. "We're not friends," he says. "We've never met. I don't know him."

Russell laughs, and turns sideways to the angel. "Ah, well, don't act so surprised, Fell, we're in with the Belgians- you'll see a few from time to time."

Aziraphale looks desperate and caged, and guilty on top of that. "Right, yes, of course," he stammers. "Silly me."

Russell chuckles and turns back to Crowley. "So who's in charge here, eh? Where do I go to debrief?"

Crowley gives directions to the makeshift HQ at the end of the communications trench before it banks to the left, and the man gives a cheerful thanks and a playful punch to the demon's arm before striding off.

When he is farther from earshot, Crowley rubs his arm and looks back at Aziraphale who is still standing there, eyes wide. "I didn't expect to run into you here," he growls.

"Where else was I going to be?" the angel whispers angrily.

"In your shop with your books, I would have thought, _mon ange_."

"If you haven't noticed," Aziraphale hisses back, "There's a bl-- a very big war on right now. Did you think I'd be sitting idly by?" He wishes he was, actually, but for now being here technically got him farther away from Sandalphon who is back in England encouraging the concept of rationing far too much for his liking.

Crowley's heart is thumping, racing against his ribs, feeling like it could escape at any moment. He wonders if it did, would it run away, or throw itself at the angel's feet, like a traitor? He feels angry at that.

"And just what are your lot up to, in all of this?" he asks.

"That's classified," Aziraphale murmurs, looking down. It wouldn't do to tell Crowley heaven's directives, now. The Arrangement was over, he figures, no matter how many times he'd tried to resurrect it while the demon was sleeping.

Crowley's eyes narrow visibly to the angel, even behind his dark motoring glasses. His mouth twitches slightly in its grim, drawn frown. Without another word, he turns away and starts to walk off.

"Crowley, wait! I-" Aziraphale cries out and grabs his shoulder to stop him, but the demon shrugs him off. "Crowley, please, just-" he goes on, but is cut off by the sudden pop of sniper fire and a sharp yelp.

Crowley races away, the angel trailing after him helplessly, down the communications trench to the front line and the source of the cry, to where a couple of men have gathered and are pulling Petersen down to safety, a streak of red like a stripe of gaudy paint through the white of the snow where he'd fallen above.

"George? George! Speak to me!" one of them says, shaking him. Petersen only groans in response.

Crowley stands paralyzed. Fuck. Of all the people to die on Christmas. He turns to the angel suddenly, and grabs his lapels, snarling. "You're a medic!" he shouts. "Do something!"

Aziraphale startles. "Yes, yes, of course!" He turns to the men squatting next to Petersen. "Go get the supply bags, up there," he orders them, and they scramble off.

The angel kneels down to take a look at the wounded man, and Crowley sinks down to his knees next to him. Aziraphale opens Petersen's coat but already knows the damage before he sees it. "It's through his heart, dear," he says mournfully.

"Look angel," Crowley whispers, "He's definitely one for your lot, but there's no reason for him to go just yet." He meets Aziraphale's eyes. " _Please_."

The angel looks up at him, uncertainly. He could get in real trouble doing miracles at the behest of a demon. But he sees the desperation in Crowley's face and knows he is telling the truth. He nods quickly, then before the two men can return with the supplies, he waves his hand above Petersen's chest, and suddenly the man gasps and winces.

"Will you look at that," Aziraphale says softly, as the men race back, bags in hand, breathing hard. "It's just grazed his arm. He's just had a bit of a shock, but he'll be right as rain I think, if we get him patched up."

Petersen slowly comes around as they attend to his wound- now, as Aziraphale had proclaimed, a mere flesh wound to his arm.

"My God, George," says one of the men, "You must have a guardian angel, and no mistake. I thought you were a goner!"

Aziraphale smiles- he's heard that joke a million times, but in this case it is technically _guardian demon_ , which they probably wouldn't think had the same ring. He clambers to his feet, and dusts his clothes. The gesture is futile against the mud of the trenches, but his habits are made that way.

* * *

After the men get Petersen settled and warmed under as many blankets as they can scrounge, Aziraphale crawls out of the dugout and leans against the sandbag wall. As the dark frigid night envelops him, he feels Crowley's presence drawing up beside him. They stay there for hours, clouds of their moonlit breath mingling and gusting away- neither ready to talk, but still silently, guiltily, enjoying the always unmistakable magnetism of their auras, that strange push and pull. At last the sky begins to lighten, almost imperceptibly. It is clear at last, no more clouds.

"Look," Crowley finally says, gesturing back to the dugout, "Thanks for that. He's got a wife, a new baby too."

Aziraphale nods. "A lot of them do. Or did. You're doing rather stellar work out here," he says, trying not to sound bitter. Crowley is a demon after all, no matter how much the angel loves him, wants to believe he is good at heart.

"You're giving me credit where it's not due again, angel," Crowley replies, without venom. "You know this is hardly my style."

"Of course," Aziraphale agrees. "Look, if you really want to know, I'm out here to-"

Crowley stops him. "No, don't. You were right. It's classified now, isn't it."

Aziraphale's face falls and he looks away. Crowley sees his disappointment and feels like a heel. His heart is fluttering in no-man's land now, perilously close to being caught at enemy lines. It might be an olive branch that Aziraphale is offering, but he can't risk grabbing it. Not yet.

"It's so very awful, isn't it?" the angel asks then, not turning back to face the demon for fear he'd read in his expression the deeper meaning. The war is awful, yes, but so is this enmity, this distance between them. He knows demons aren't made to love, _but he is_ , and he's quite certain that he, himself, is head over heels for Crowley.

"Yep," Crowley agrees, taking the comment at face value, thinking he means the war. He likes mucking up people's days with little annoyances, but when their good day is just managing not to die, it takes all the fun out of it.

"Why must they do these things to themselves, do you think?" the angel asks then, rhetorically, pulling his focus away from his own heartache back to the safer territory of human suffering.

"It's not really them though, is it?" Crowley says, gesturing to the men huddled nearby. "It's all those bastards in charge isn't it? The ones far away having big ideas."

Aziraphale looks at him pointedly. Their condition is much the same, he thinks. The demon looks back, his shoulders slumped as if in exhaustion.

Suddenly Crowley is struck with an idea, and he grins. "You know what, angel?" he says, straightening up, "It's Christmas, and I'm in your debt. I'm here to give some people a bad day..."

Aziraphale looks concerned.

"And right now," he continues, "I can't think of anyone that deserves their day mucked up than the commands responsible for all of this."

Aziraphale's expression turns from concerned to confused. "Crowley, what-"

"Won't be a moment," he winks over his glasses and swaggers off, disappearing at the turn in the trench.

A moment or two later he reappears, coming from the other direction, smiling. Temptations are oh so easy, he reflects, when men's hearts were aching for a thing. It was hardly work. It barely even counted. Crowley stops next to Aziraphale and looks at him, cupping a hand to his ear. Out in the breaking light of the Christmas dawn a noise is growing, carrying over the frozen field, over barbed wire, hauntingly, over the nerves of the men crouched in the dugout. It isn't the boom of cannons or the sharp shots of rifles, but singing, the music of men, rising and rising as more German voices join in, till a roar of _Stille Nacht_ is spilling over their trenches into listening hearts on the other side.

"What did you do?" the angel asks, still wondering what any of this will mean.

"Just reminded that lot of some things," Crowley answers. _Like home_ , he thinks. Their humanity. _Free will_.

In the trench the men start to gather, listening, whispering. As the song fades, last words echoing over the plain and the cold morning goes still again, they look to one another, faces rosy with cold and unexpected delight. Up then goes the volley of their reprise, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen ringing out as loud as they can manage. Aziraphale looks at Crowley, kindly, _knowingly_. The sort of knowingly that makes him blush and look away, the kind that says _you really are good at heart, you know_. Thankfully he doesn't actually say it. As the song ends around them, it is met by a round of applause by the Germans, and then another song from their side. Suddenly at the top of the trench a sentry cries, "Come look, come look!"

Suddenly unafraid, the men all scramble up to peek over the top, as a lone German figure strides into no-man's land, a makeshift flag of white fluttering around him like angelic wings, wading out to spread goodwill to men. Slowly then, one by one, on either side, men rise up to join him there in the middle- no rifles, no bayonets, just smiles and hands, offered in peace for Christmas Day.

Aziraphale watches in awe as the men, as one, leave their posts and their duties on both sides, and begin pouring into the field to celebrate together, sharing more songs and candies, brandy and photographs from home. They even manage to hoist up Petersen (who indeed had made a miraculous recovery) to join in.

"It's _beautiful_ ," the angel says, turning to Crowley with wonder in his eyes.

"Just a little _fraternizing_ ," the demon says, shrugging. "Not that I'd know about that sort of thing. But definitely something that is going to give the higher-ups a headache."

* * *

### 

That afternoon, as the celebratory mood rages on (eventually breaking out into a game of football), an angel and a demon looking on, Petersen approaches Crowley with a box, a grin on his face.

"The boys and me reckon," he says, reaching into it, "That seeing as you didn't get any post, we'd share with you. Everyone needs a present, it's Christmas after all."

What he pulls out of the box is possibly the ugliest nightmare of a jumper that Crowley has ever seen in six millennia. It is knitted too tight in some spots and lax in others. One sleeve is obviously longer than the other, and the whole thing is, frankly, misshapen. Before Crowley's face has time to process the horror in his mind, the man explains.

"My Louise made this special, monsieur, the first one she ever knit. She would be so pleased to know it's out here, keeping a Lieutenant warm. Try it on!"

"Erm, thank you," Crowley says, taking the thing as if it will bite. He looks desperately at Aziraphale, but the angel only raises his brows and smiles wryly.

"Go on then," the angel says.

Crowley sighs, then struggles the hideous thing over his head and pulls it down. "It's beautiful, merci," he says to Petersen, knowing full well it is even worse _on_ than it had been off.

Petersen grins, salutes, and treads off to rejoin the party.

* * *

That night, as he and Crowley sit in the dark of the dugout side by side, with cups of brandy, Aziraphale proposes a toast.

"To truces, then," he says, smiling softly.

Crowley closes the toast with a clink of his mug, but sighs and looks out reluctantly into the dark beyond before taking a sip. "They never last, though," he mutters. He honestly doesn't know if he means the humans or the two of them. He wants to soften, but he’s still too hurt. He’s been made the enemy, he’ll play the part.

"Neither does war," Aziraphale says, hopefully, and leaves it at that.

In the dark, his hand reaches out for Crowley's and their fingers touch, just barely. For a moment, neither of them move or breathe. Then, quickly, the demon pulls his hand away. Aziraphale sighs. _So that is that_ , he thinks, the Arrangement is not to be revived. He gets shakily to his feet, whispers " _good night_ " then slips out into blackness of the trench.

Once the sound of the angel's boots are just a faint faroff scuff against the duckboards outside, Crowley presses his hand, under the huddle of his blankets, unseen, to his mouth, his nose- as if some essence of Aziraphale lingers there, and he could kiss it, take it in. He feels bruised, all over, mostly his heart, and feels the threat of tears behind his eyes. He desperately wants to be back in Eden, to change all this. Maybe he should never have stepped under that wing, maybe he should have slithered west instead. Maybe one day he'll learn to stop hurting himself.

Out in the trench, Aziraphale tries to pull himself together. If Crowley only knew how sorry he'd been, how many times he had looked, in vain, for the demon after their disagreement, how much he regretted what they'd said. But Crowley had said it first, that he _didn’t need Aziraphale_ , and it had stung so badly, the angel hadn't known what to do. Of course he needs Crowley. Well no, not needs- maybe wants him is more the truth. Or loves. But they are hereditary enemies and he can't forget that, can't let it go, because it's acknowledging that divide between them that's kept them both safe, kept it all under wraps. And if Crowley can't understand that, well, maybe it is safer for them apart. He never wanted a fight, but he isn't giving in. There are a lot of things he is prepared to give to Crowley, stupidly, a lot of concessions he is prepared to make, but he loves Crowley too much to give the demon the means to his own destruction, even if it means the end of the Arrangement. Still, they might follow the humans' example here and now, he decides, bide their time in peace until it is time to go their separate ways.

* * *

The humans continue celebrating and fraternizing (and toasting with brandy which miraculously never runs out) for a week, until New Year's Day when their command has finally had enough and threatens them back to their posts. The angel knows also, it is time he moved on.

After giving a warm goodbye to Petersen, Aziraphle quietly approaches Crowley. "He really is such a nice fellow."

"Yeah, well," Crowley says, stony behind his dark glasses. "His wife is gonna be devastated."

Aziraphale looks shocked. "Oh no, you can't mean- but he's so nice!"

"Oh, don't worry," Crowley says grimly, but with a hint of a grin, "he's going home, but without this sweater." The demon is still wearing it, under his coat. "She'll be pretty mad he just gave it away."

The angel laughs. "Oh goodness. Yes, I suppose there will be such a row."

They stand there awkwardly, until Captain Russell calls down to Aziraphale that they are ready to move out in a moment and the angel nods. 

"Won't be a tic!" he calls back up.

He turns to Crowley. They haven't said much between them this week, but like the men have kept a truce, of words and hearts. They haven't reconciled, but neither did they fight. Now it is time they went back to their sides, and even though neither wants to, they assume the other does.

"Maybe I'll see you," the angel says, a sad smile twitching at his lips, "After all this nonsense is over." Again, he isn't sure if he means the war, or their own enmity.

"Maybe," Crowley replies, smiling weakly, "Or during their next round of nonsense."

Aziraphale chuckles. "Perhaps you're right. Best of luck," he says, holding out his hand.

Crowley doesn't take it. He isn't ready. His face is expressionless, but he salutes. "Best be getting on, _mon ange_."

Aziraphale sighs. He nods mutely, then turning, he climbs out of the trench and away. He doesn't look back, and Crowley doesn't dare look up.

* * *

Epilogue

The Christmas after escaping their executions, Crowley is sprawled on the couch in Aziraphale's bookshop, looking out as an early London snow spins Soho in a web of white, and is suddenly reminded of their time snowed in a century before. The angel plops down onto the cushion next to him, handing him a steaming mug of gluhwein.

"Do you remember Petersen?" Crowley asks, taking a sip, and smiling. Aziraphale has had this recipe since the Crusades and Crowley thinks it is the only good thing to come out of those shenanigans.

"Oh yes," Aziraphale chimes. "Such a nice chap. I wonder whatever happened to him?"

"I saw him later," Crowley laughs. "I think he and Louise had about six kids. Nice to know things worked out for him in the end."

"It is," the angel agrees. "And that she didn't leave him over the jumper." He turns to the demon, glee in his eyes. "Oh Crowley- do you still have it?"

"Oh, hell no," Crowley groans. "I put it back in his things before I left, actually. But I suspect he only tried to give it away again."

They laugh a rosy laugh, together. Together feels good, thinks Crowley.

"It was so terribly awful." Aziraphale sighs. His thoughts have turned from the jumper to their tension back then. Though admittedly, both were terribly awful.

Crowley reaches over and pretends to straighten the angel's bow tie, then fiddles aimlessly with the buttons on his waistcoat.

"Angel, you know I'm sorry I pushed you away. I was just-"

"I know, dear, you were just hurt. I was hurt too. I missed you horribly."

Crowley smiles at him lovingly. "S'nice to be on our own side, now, isn't it?" he asks, resting his hand on Aziraphale's knee.

The angel beams. "Yes, I'm glad you finally came to your senses," he says, taking a sip.

"Right, right- _my senses_."

Aziraphale tuts. "Oh dear, that snow doesn't look to be letting up at all, does it? It looks as if we might be stuck in here for a while. But it does give me an idea." He snaps his fingers and the gramophone starts up, _Christmas Bells_ playing softly over the stacks.

"Oh?"

"Well, the bookshop is a sight more comfy than those dreadful trenches," he says, conspiratorially, "I say we hole ourselves up in here for the week and see if we can't have ourselves a better holiday."

"That," Crowley murmurs, leaning in to kiss the angel tenderly, "sounds like a very good plan."

### 

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this was something dramatic happens causing our angel and demon to hole up together for a week at Christmas (and also ugly sweaters). I may have bent that a little to my will, but I hope the end result is everything you hoped for. It gave me such feels, and I LOVED doing the art for this. Aziraphale is the cutest little British bean with a moustache, fight me. LOL  
> Many thanks to Caedmon for beta editing the comma salad :)


End file.
